Growing up in motel rooms

It’s not what you think.

 

A few weekends ago I was home for a bachelorette party. After sleeping my hangover off at my sister’s house I got back on the highway for a boring 4.5 hour ride to Vermont. Of course traveling never goes my way and a strap under the hood broke. There are few things more terrifying and pissy-mood inducing than having your power steering lock up going 80mph while you’re surrounded by crazy Mass drivers heading home from OOB.

Long story short, I ended up driving back in a borrowed Subaru, and I could barely see five feet in front of me with all the rain. Other cars were pulled over to the side of the highway, and I decided that still sweaty from a bachelorette party with a shirt that read “Bride’s Bitches” was not the way I wanted to be found if my car ended up kissing a metal guard rail.

I  booted up the Smart Phone to find the nearest motel off the turnpike. The first one had no vacancy (I now knew how Mary felt), so I drove to the next one a mile down the road, hoping I wouldn’t need to sleep in the car with my new Nook Tablet as a potential weapon.

The second place, The Turnpike Motel, thankfully had a spot. The lady asked me if I was alone. I answered yes and then grew nervous (it must be easier to kill and dispose of one body instead of two) but because I was going stag she knocked the price down from $99 to $83. Of course Henry the VIII also had fantastic sex with all his wives before beheading them….

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I’ve always wanted to get my own hotel room. I think this obsession with having my own living space was borne out of seven combined years of boarding school roommates, college roommates, and living with a boyfriend. I wanted my first alone hotel experience to, well, be in a hotel and not a motel. I also envisioned some champagne, crisp white sheets, a room service menu, and a view over a harbor. Suddenly, my past experiences of having to sleep two feet away from my parents in nice hotels, my father with his propensity for snoring bellowing away, didn’t seem so bad. Lodging at the side of I-95 wedge between rooms that had Harley’s parked outside didn’t fit into that dream; I triple checked the deadbolts.

Of course the old adage of judging a book by its cover should always be considered. The Turnpike Motel ending up being a bit campy, but oddly cozy, with a faux wood breakfast bar, a big shower, and even room to do some yoga (which I of course didn’t do because no amount of upward dogging could have fixed my horrible mood.) I couldn’t even hear the 18-wheelers rumbling by and thank goodness no one next store felt the need to be coital. I fell asleep watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

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I won’t pretend I didn’t pray a little that night—pray that I wouldn’t wake up in some Eastern European country tied to a metal bed frame and on the verge of torture—but a lot of the time I like my quiet, my solitude, and maybe snuggling under sheets of questionable cleanliness and using mini shampoos will be something I look forward to.

Now, to convince my work that I should be traveling for them!

Love,

Jocellyn

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